


Sense of Innocence

by tenderly_wicked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rough Sex, Self-Harm, Slash, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-04 13:48:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderly_wicked/pseuds/tenderly_wicked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A violent row evolves into angry sex, and Sherlock – the one who’s been pinned down to his bed and thoroughly dealt with – is more than happy with this turn of events. But it seems that John isn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sense of Innocence

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my patient beta primalmusic :-)

Sherlock seldom found himself stupidly grinning. Almost never, surely not since university when Victor had invited him down to his family place in Norfolk for a month of the long vacation. He thought of himself as a serious, mature man now, devoid of stupid sentiment… but at the moment, he felt the corners of his lips slightly twitching in rebellion – a huge, incongruous smile breaking through.

His body was pleasantly aching in oh so many places, and it was an unexpected delight to catalogue all these scratches, bruises, and suck marks. Sherlock was now saving them on his hard drive for future detailed examination – he’d be savouring them for a long, long time unless John soon provided him with more interesting data to remember.

The evening didn’t seem to have ended so badly after all…

 _It started with a quarrel (“Sherlock, you reckless idiot!”), and it wasn’t as if Sherlock maliciously ignored John flailing his hands and asking rhetorical questions (“What were you thinking?”); he just didn’t know what to say, hence he preferred not saying anything at all. And maybe, just maybe, however strange it might seem, he liked John being mad at him. It wasn’t a scolding, done out of appropriate concern; Sherlock would have hated that, he always did. No, it was an absolutely genuine explosive reaction of a man in shock, horrified by the mere idea of what could have happened. John wasn’t_ concerned _. He_ cared. _To Sherlock, there was a difference._

_Listening to John, Sherlock was basking in an odd feeling that he was loved, and he wanted it to last as long as possible, which meant he had to keep John in a continued state of irritation. It was selfish, yes. Definitely not good, and he knew it, and yet he was unable to bring himself to say “sorry-won’t-happen-again” and stop it all._

_Sherlock wandered aimlessly around the flat, wearing pyjama bottoms and a faded t-shirt, and tried to fake apathetic imperturbability; John followed him wherever he went and continued his one-sided argument until they ended up in Sherlock’s room. Sherlock picked up “An Illustrated Guide to Human Decomposition” from a pile of books on the bedside table and started flipping through it when John snarled, “Enough!”_

_The next moment, the book hit the floor with a thud – John shoved Sherlock against the wall, hard, and yanked his hands behind his back. “You want to learn the hard way – all right. Fine. Not my fault you weren’t listening. I’ll teach you – not – to do it – ever – again… Stop wriggling. Just stop it. Not going to let you get away.”_

_It wasn’t that Sherlock tried his best to escape. He just jerked in John’s tight grip a few times, caught by surprise, his cheek plastered to the wall. But John was holding him down expertly. The next thing Sherlock knew, his wrists were roughly tied up – John only needed to make a swift side movement to grab something from a hanger on the door._

_“Not my scarf!” Sherlock protested._

_“Shut up,” John muttered, preoccupied, “or it goes into your mouth.”_

_“John!”_

_“I said shut up.”_

_Sherlock struggled only half-heartedly – he couldn’t get what was going on – so his thrashing about didn’t save him from being forcibly escorted to the bed, and soon he was bent over John’s knee, effectively restrained by John’s leg over his thighs and the lock John had on his bound arms. Smack! John’s broad palm landed on his backside._

_“John… Argh!”_

_Smack! Smack! Smack! John kept muttering – explaining – why he had to do this, why he had no choice but do this, he was almost apologizing, but Sherlock was only able to concentrate on the forceful, measured swats. The soft cotton of his pyjama bottoms hardly prevented him from appraising the heartfelt intensity of each well-deserved blow – Sherlock lost count at thirty, or more exactly, stopped counting. Squirming in John’s hold felt strangely _safe_ , despite the humiliating loss of control, and he didn’t want it to stop._

_It all somehow must have made his mind short-circuit because Sherlock couldn’t tell how long the spanking lasted – and when it finally stopped, he didn’t realize it for a few seconds, still waiting for the next strike. The first thing he understood was really embarrassing – he found himself pressing against John’s denim-clad thigh without even meaning to, an unwanted erection so obvious that John surely had noticed it. No. No-no-no. It shouldn’t have happened. Not now. Not again. Not with John._

_“You like it,” John said in a stunned tone, his breathing still uneven from both emotional and physical exertion._

_Sherlock tensed, bracing himself against the inevitable – John could only push him away in disgust, because wasn’t it appalling, him rutting pathetically against John’s leg?_

_Instead, John suddenly grabbed his stinging, heated buttocks with both hands and squeezed. “You bloody like it, don’t you?” A surprised hiss was Sherlock’s only answer, and John pressed harder. “I asked you a question. Do – you – like it?” This time, Sherlock let out a strangled noise which could be understood as “yes”. John roughly flipped him over, “Enjoying yourself, huh?”_

_…and after that, it was all a bit of a blur. John’s hand under the waistband of his pants, tugging at his pubic hair. John’s teeth on his shoulder. John’s fingers twisting his nipple. John’s penis – oh! – bobbing up, hot and eager, against Sherlock’s, and John’s palm grasping tightly around them both… Sherlock bucked and gasped as he came, helpless and painfully sensitive, his whole body glowing and his mind processing one single word over and over again: “John, John, John”…_

Now they were sprawled across the bed, both lax and unable to move, John’s head resting heavily upon Sherlock’s bare chest – Sherlock’s t-shirt had been hiked up in the rush of coupling. Lying on his bound hands and thoroughly-spanked backside was getting a little bit uncomfortable, but Sherlock didn’t want to spoil the moment. It was such a relief that it had turned out all right. Moreover, it was almost a miracle that he’d finally got what he craved so much, from the one who really mattered, and without having an awkward conversation. A long time ago, Sherlock had told himself he should control and repress his inappropriate desires and remain alone. But now he felt it was all fine – thanks to John. They’d both enjoyed it so much that it couldn’t be wrong. After all, John was good at defining what _was_ wrong and what wasn’t; Sherlock trusted him on that.

In a blissful dreamy haze, he kept wondering what their further intercourse would look like, and imagining possible scenarios. Would John be amenable to whipping him before stretching and penetrating him for the first time?

Sherlock sighed in anticipation… and felt John moving away. It startled him from the pleasant reverie; Sherlock raised his head too and found that John was now staring at him, propped up on his elbows. There was something unsettling about this gaze.

“Oh God,” John said.

What was that supposed to mean?

“You might want to untie me,” Sherlock suggested, thinking it over, and turned helpfully to give John access to his bound wrists.

“Oh God,” John said again and started fumbling with the knots in a hurried, almost panicking manner. Why would he be so nervous? Was it because he was insecure about the quality of his… performance? Sherlock had little data on the matter, but judging from personal observation, he’d say John was a good lover, maybe a little bit clumsy (he’d had wider experience with women, obviously) but so passionate that nothing else really mattered. And he was certainly competent in bondage.

Perhaps it would be appropriate to mention that? Sherlock knew he probably had to say something reassuring to make John feel more comfortable – but what exactly? “You did well”? It would sound too condescending. “Thank you, John, that was amazing”? That was even worse, like he was congratulating John on a flawlessly-performed trick.

“John… um…” Sherlock began, but he couldn’t pick the right words – now of all times! – and John wasn’t helping him at all. “That was… expertly done, tying me up,” he managed a compliment at last. John would like the acknowledgement of his skills, wouldn’t he?

John remained frighteningly sullen.

 _I must have done something wrong_ , Sherlock realized with a surge of panic. But what could it possibly be? Was John still angry? No, he didn’t look angry. He looked… guilty.

 _Maybe he simply didn’t like you,_ another wave of coldness crashed over Sherlock’s chest. _And now he doesn’t know how to tell you._

But… but… The way John had been groping and marking his body, the way John had clung to him – it was raw, insatiable need, clear and unmistakable. It wasn’t necessary for John to articulate his desires. A hoarse growl that escaped through gritted teeth, or a possessive suck mark he left on Sherlock’s throat where it would be visible – these signs were more apparent than any words. To Sherlock, it meant “I’ve wanted to do this to you for so long”.

No, John _did_ like it, very much so – and now he was ashamed of it. _You provoked him into this, Sherlock. He wasn’t intending to have sex with you._

“John, I’m sorry if I…” Sherlock muttered hesitantly, but John cut him short, a pained expression on his face, “No. No, Sherlock, it’s not your fault. It’s all mine.”

So guilt it was, accompanied by self-reproach.

 _Because John is essentially normal_ , a sleazy whisper rustled in his mind, _and you know what normal people – most people – think of those who fantasize about being tied up and hurt, and those who like inflicting pain_.

Oh yes, he knew it too damn well.

 _You’re a fucking pervert, you’re sick._ Victor’s shaky voice was still ringing in his head, after all these years.

He’d felt so dirty then, he’d felt like he had lost his innocence without losing his virginity.

“I think… I’d better leave,” John murmured to himself, fumbling over the zipper on his jeans.

Now it was even worse. Sherlock had never thought it could be. For one desperate moment, as the door was closing, he wanted to call after John and beg him to stay.

He didn’t.

The same mistake, made twice – what was it if not deplorable idiocy? He could have foreseen Victor’s possible reaction and its consequences, but no, he hadn’t _thought_. He’d been so obsessed with their growing intimacy, the easy closeness he didn’t seem to have with anyone else… If someone could ever say it was all fine, it had to be Vic… Stupid, stupid!

This time, he’d managed to screw up without even starting to explain himself. He should have stopped John to keep what they had unscathed, because he liked it all so much – giggling like schoolboys, running the streets together, having fun. Simply being friends. It’d been a long time since he’d had a friend.

But in a haze of lust, he’d been blinded by a frantic hope that it was possible to have _more_ without losing this chaste affinity. Everything had been so impossibly good – every scratch, every bruise, every friction of flesh against flesh. It had felt like mutual, unashamed need, and to hell with what’s accepted and what’s not...

But in the end, real life had to intrude. Of course John would have never attempted something sadistic if his head were clear. He’d acted on impulse. Now he was sickened with what they had done, and scared because he’d enjoyed it. Nobody likes to admit he’s _bad_.

Sherlock kicked the duvet to the floor, angry with himself, and curled onto his side among the asymmetrical mounds of the rumpled sheets. Every movement seemed to suck the energy out of him. Now that the fizz of an endorphin high had dissolved, the multiple aches evenly spread across his body suddenly became nothing more than pedestrian tissue damage, and thus not really pleasant. He also felt like something was clawing his chest from the inside, so that he could barely breathe. A phantom pain. He wasn’t going to cry, definitely not, why was his throat so sore?

After a while, Sherlock forced himself to get up. He ripped his stained pajamas off, trudged into the en suite bathroom and cleaned up the congealing traces of come on his chest and belly, the evidence of his orgasm. Did this count as losing his virginity? Lying with John by his side, idiotically happy, he’d thought it did. Now he wasn’t sure. To John, it was a sort of accident, not an act of love making, so why should he consider it otherwise?

He felt so vile that he wanted to step into a hail of icy water and rub himself with a sponge for hours, but he couldn’t afford histrionics. He wanted to keep John, to make it up to him. If he pretended he was all right and nothing bad had occurred, perhaps they could trawl through the inevitable awkwardness and stay friends. John would eventually forgive his crazy flatmate, as he usually did.

Sherlock dressed up – he hurled clothes around the bedroom, choosing his outfit very carefully: he needed the right armour. No soft, worn out, almost transparent pyjamas anymore; underwear, socks, trousers, a plain white shirt (nothing too fancy), and a wine-coloured wool robe over it all. The more layers of fabric between him and John, the better. John shouldn’t get uncomfortable, hence no reminders of nudity and of what had happened. Sherlock wanted to look homely and decent, to show he wasn’t a threat to John’s moral principles. Everything could be the same as before, that was what his appearance should be saying.

Let the collar of the shirt be slightly turned up, to hide a hickey. Perfect. Ready to go.

In the kitchen, Sherlock paused. A barely audible creak of a wooden floor board, the one near the sofa – John was in the living room. Good. Doing nothing, which meant he was lost in gloomy thoughts. Not that good.

Sherlock made himself a ham sandwich (he didn’t want it, he wasn’t hungry, but eating was _normal_ ; John should see he was fine) and, chewing it unflappably, emerged into the room. John was sitting on the sofa. With the sandwich in one hand, Sherlock stopped at the table in the middle of the room and started leafing through a newspaper, the top one of a very unsteady stack. He knew without looking up that John was now watching him.

Finally, John coughed, clearing his throat. “Do you want…” he stuttered. “Do you need to see a doctor?”

Sherlock frowned, uncomprehending. “Huh?” An unpleasant thought – could it be that John meant a therapist? The last thing he needed was someone screwing with his mind and asking stupid questions about his childhood. He’d had a surprisingly ordinary childhood, for gods’ sakes! He hadn’t been abused or molested, no reason for him to develop into a masochistic pervert – and yet he had become one. It was just the way he was born, or so it seemed.

“I mean,” John continued with visible effort, “if you feel sore…”

It made even less sense.

“But I’ve got _you_ , why would I consult someone else?” Sherlock burst out without thinking… and almost bit his tongue. John must feel uneasy now when seeing him naked, even if partially – it was a logical thing to assume, and here came the proof: John was trying to find a delicate way to say he _wouldn’t_ tend to his bruises.

“It’s all right,” Sherlock hastened to assure him. Something happened to his throat again and he just hoped his voice wouldn’t fail him. “You don’t have to. Nothing hurts.”

John didn’t seem to believe such a blatant lie but didn’t comment on it.

For a second, Sherlock imagined John gently inspecting his reddened wrists… fetching a cold compress for his backside… petting his hair soothingly…

It would have felt so good if only Sherlock were still in his happy bubble of ignorance. Now it would be just a mockery of what he could never have… And yet the thought that John would never touch him again made Sherlock’s guts wrench. He looked at the rest of his sandwich with nauseating disgust and carefully placed it on top of the pile of newspapers. John made no remark on his misbehavior, as he normally would have. It was part of the fun – John grumping, making him do _the right things_. There would be none of that now.

John rubbed his face with both hands. He looked worn out and lost. “I’ll move out in an hour or so. Just need to grab a change of clothes. I’ll let you know where I’m staying. Haven’t decided on it yet, I guess it’s better not to get Harry involved, so I’ll find a hostel…” He forcibly stopped this flood of words, paused for a second. “That is, I’ll be, um, available. It’s not like I’m running away.”

“You _are_ running away,” Sherlock pointed out, sounding choked. No. It wasn’t happening. No. All of a sudden, in one night, he was to be alone again. Living without a lover had always been bearable, but this flat without John would seem empty now.

John gave an edgy smile. “I may be lots of unpleasant things, but at least I’m not a coward – I’d like to think so. If you want to report me, or maybe tell Mycroft, I won’t flee, I won’t deny anything. Just so that you know. I’ve lost control, but it’s no excuse, and I’m well aware of it.”

“Report you?” Sherlock repeated blankly.

“Sherlock, you can’t possibly ignore the fact that I’ve practically raped you.”

“You haven’t.”

“I have.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Sherlock retorted, the fingers of his right hand ghosting nervously over the burn marks on his left wrist.

John shook his head stubbornly. “I held you down, I tied you up. I…”

“I could have fought you off at any moment!” Agitated, Sherlock pulled at the sash of his robe, yanked it out in one swift movement, and held it out to John. “Come on, try to tie me up again. You’ll see, I’m perfectly capable of…”

It was the wrong move. John stared at his waist like he wanted to reach between the folds of Sherlock’s robe, slip his hands in there – and then he swallowed hard and turned away, clearly disturbed by this sudden impulse.

“Okay,” he said. “Maybe. But I didn’t know it.”

For a moment, they stayed silent – Sherlock desperately seeking John’s gaze, John avoiding eye contact. The useless sash slipped out of Sherlock’s hand to the floor.

“I don’t get it,” he said softly, afraid that if he spoke louder, the wire tightening in his throat would make his voice trail off. “I liked it. You liked it too. So what’s the problem, why should we be ashamed?”

Despite all the layers of clothes, he felt like he’d stripped himself naked and John could see him the way he was – deflated and insecure. A poor depraved freak begging for some kind of absolution.

But hoping that John would say “Yes, we both liked it, so it’s fine then, come here” was obviously as stupid as everything else he’d done this evening. Instead, John’s face contorted in exasperation. “Sherlock… that your body reacted… er… in a certain way – it wasn’t your fault, you shouldn’t be ashamed at all…”

“I’m not talking about my body!” Forcing every single word out was a tremendous effort. Sherlock started rubbing his wrist again, harder this time, just to concentrate on anything other than the suffocating feeling of defeat. “I wasn’t ashamed before you left. I was _happy_. For the first time – the first time in my whole life, John, I didn’t feel bad wanting something like this – because you seemed to want it too – and I thought… I thought we could continue, I hoped we could. But then you say – sorry, it wasn’t supposed to happen. All right, I’ll survive this. However, if you think it was only my body betraying me – because we all know normal people don’t get off on being hurt, do they? – I must disappoint you. I’m not normal. I _wanted_ you to pin me down and make me take the pain and anything else you’d choose to give me. Anything, John. I enjoyed every second of it. You see – I’m a bloody pervert. If you have a problem with it – fine, get out then and have your moral crisis elsewhere.”

He turned away and stormed out of the room, into the kitchen, and off to his bedroom, nails digging into his wrist.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice called out behind him.

A small unpleasant sound – a button, torn off from the cuff, tinkled down and rolled across the floor. He’d flop back down onto the bed, but it was still a mess, a reminder of sex and frenzy and John. Oh god. Nails scratching up the underside of his arm – not a good kind of hurt, it never could be when he was alone – still a distraction – a distraction – a distraction…

“Sherlock!”

He realized he was standing in the middle of the bedroom, clawing his arm, tearing the skin, the left sleeves of his shirt and robe pushed up revealing long, angry red scratches. And John was staring at these marks in horror. Another piece of evidence loudly saying “freak”.

Sherlock wanted to hiss something like “get out” again, but John stepped closer, gently took Sherlock’s marred hand into both of his, and pressed it to his cheek. “I’m sorry,” he breathed out. “I’m so sorry. Shouldn’t have left you like this. First I beat you, then I force myself on you, and after that, I walk out on you… Not really what a friend would do, huh?” He smiled mirthlessly, a crease between his brows. “It’s just that I’ve been so scared for you today, so damn scared. And you were… so alive when I held you, Sherlock, and I felt so alive too… And then I thought you wouldn’t want to see me anymore.”

“I was trying to say the opposite,” Sherlock reminded him tartly. He wanted to lean in to John so much – and hated himself for being so needy.

Fortunately, John didn’t give him a choice and pulled him close, somewhat clumsily. “For that, I’m sorry too. Guilt can be very selfish and blind I guess.” Sherlock tensed against him, and John added hastily: “I don’t mean I feel guilty for enjoying… um… rough sex. But Sherlock, I didn’t _ask_ if that was what you wanted. There’s nothing wrong with you if you did – but there’s something wrong with me because I acted without your consent. I always thought myself a good person. A reliable person. Turns out I’m not. I’m so sorry.”

To Sherlock’s surprise, he heard something similar to a sob. What was he supposed to do? He tentatively put an arm around John’s midriff, his other hand still awkwardly pressed between them.

“You can’t – you can’t trust me anymore,” John exhaled into his shoulder.

Sherlock attempted at a shrug, which was a hard thing to perform with John clinging to him so tightly. “As you probably know, I trust no one anyway.”

John half-sighed, half-chuckled. “Liar.”

Sherlock rested his chin on top of John’s head, the short-trimmed hair soft and slightly ticklish against his skin. “Among other things, yes. Unfortunately, there’s no one to correct me.” For some reason, the realization that John needed comforting too made the turmoil in his head calm down slightly.

“Do you want me to? Correct you, this is.” There was a hint of uncertainty in John’s tone, but his body felt more relaxed and at ease now.

“Maybe,” Sherlock said timorously.

“Like… disciplining you? Physically?”

“Why do you need me to spell everything out?” Sherlock grumbled. “Physically. Verbally. Any way you find fit.” Then, seized by a mischievous impulse, he lowered his head and droned out in a husky voice, lips close to John’s ear, “Just imagine, John. Imagine me stripped of all my clothes, face down on the bed, and holding on to the bedpost – following your strict order. My legs are spread wide, the most sensitive parts on display for you. I’m fidgeting in apprehension, and you tell me to stay still, in a manner so stern that I know there will be consequences for my disobedience. And then I hear you pulling out your belt… Is this elucidating enough, or should I proceed?”

During this speech, John’s breathing became laboured, and clearly not because he was disgusted with the prospects. “But Sherlock,” he managed to protest, “you can’t be sure… You can’t rely on me… What if I do something awful to you? Something even more awful than I did…”

“John.”

“I wasn’t controlling myself… What if I don’t stop…”

“John,” Sherlock repeated urgently. “Let go of my hand. You’re hurting me.”

John took a step back, startled. “Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize…”

“John – you see!” Sherlock declared triumphantly, but John looked at him obviously uncomprehending and confused, so Sherlock clarified with exaggerated patience, “You _will_ stop if tell you to. And believe me, if I’m in genuine distress, I will. I promise.”

John still seemed unconvinced, and as the final act of persuasion, Sherlock held out his raw hand to him. “Now would be a good time to help me with this. Will you take care of me, John? Please?”

John blinked. “Yeah. Right. Sorry again.”

He seemed to return to his habitual doctor mode most gladly – so it was the right thing to ask, no miscalculations here. Pain had been a distraction for Sherlock, but as for John, he’d clearly rather divert from his own misery by relieving someone else’s suffering.

In the kitchen, John gently applied some antiseptic to the crescent nail marks and long scrapes on Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock pretended that it stung more than it actually did, fishing for extra attention, and John provided him with what he probably needed the most now, more than just medical treatment – small soothing kisses along the scratches, and unintelligible but comforting murmurs. Something not a doctor but a lover would give him.

It was terribly selfish, and Sherlock was well aware of it, but he couldn’t help thinking it was for the best that John still felt somewhat guilty. For John, realizing he wasn’t as flawless as he wanted to be must have been like losing his sense of innocence too. Maybe John would understand him better now, with all his insecurities and well-hidden issues, and what if together they could return to what they thought they had lost? Perhaps someday all the disturbing fantasies could turn into something playful and loving, and they both could talk freely of what they wanted… and just have fun?

“So you’re not leaving?” Sherlock inquired cautiously, pressing into the touch as John kept stroking his hair.

John’s face broke into a wan smile. “All things considered, I’d rather have my moral crisis here, by your side. If you’ll let me.” Suddenly the grip on Sherlock’s hair tightened. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed that half-eaten sandwich on top of your newspapers.”

A huge stupid grin, the second time in a day – for Sherlock, it was a personal record.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to friend me on [Facebook](https://www.facebook.com/people/Katerina-Ross/100012647831003) or follow me on [Tumblr](http://tenderlywicked.tumblr.com/) if you're so inclined!
> 
> And you can check out my novel [Tenderly Wicked](https://www.amazon.com/Tenderly-Wicked-Katerina-Ross-ebook/dp/B01LYGUJ02/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1473767605&sr=1-1#nav-subnav) and my paranormal M/M series [The Sons of Gomorrah](http://a.co/0ttTWNF) :)


End file.
